


Fill in the Blanks

by Fluencca



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt Neal Caffrey, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 10:23:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14103306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: A routine op goes south, and Neal does what needs to be done to keep everyone safe.





	1. Chapter 1

Neal briefly considered walking and trying to enjoy the early twilight of New York in the autumn, but decided against it. The function at the gallery would begin in half an hour, and he didn’t want to risk being late.

He hailed a cab with practiced ease, and smiled to himself as he climbed in and gave the address. It was good being home. It had been 3 weeks since he got back to New York, but everything still seemed fresh, crisp, almost unreal to him. He inhaled deeply, trying to grasp the reality of the moment. It failed him, and all he got was a lungful of sweat and cigarette smoke mixed in with cheap cologne.

He wasn’t sure why everything felt so surreal to him. He was back in the city he loved, working with Peter again, and even back in his loft. He could certainly afford his own place with the money he was making as an independent consultant to the FBI, but he liked living with June, and he liked the view. No, there was nothing missing in his life. Everything was in place, yet he still felt somehow out of sorts in his new-old life. It was like he remembered all the steps to a dance, but someone had changed the music. He went to work, joked around with Peter, solved cases, and enjoyed the occasional dinner with Elizabeth and little Neil. But something was different, something was off in the alignment of his old habits, and he couldn’t pinpoint it. It made his whole reality seem fragile, somehow.

The cabbie dipped into a one-way street in the wrong direction, and pulled up in front of the gallery. “That’s 25 bucks,” he said, looking at Neal through the rearview mirror.

“Come on, I’m not a tourist, man,” Neal said, smiling with the charm of familiarity. “We barely went ten blocks. I’ll give you fifteen.”

The driver made a disgruntled sound, and started ranting in Italian, but he put his arm back to take the money without further negotiating.

Neal stepped out of the cab and straightened his tie. Even if the music was off, he wasn’t going to miss any steps. He was going to enjoy tonight.

~*~

Elizabeth stood in front of the sculpture, trying to admire it but sadly failing. The artist had tried to translate the Greek classics to Art Nouveau, and the results were less than inspiring. Unless they were trying to comment on linearity of culture? She shook her head, and turned to a champagne flute that materialized at her side.

“Oh, Neal! I didn’t see you come in. Thank you,” she said, as she took the glass. “I was just looking at…” She squinted at the title, and rolled her eyes. “ _Daphnis and Chloe: #Totally._ Who was this person’s advisor at art school? _”_

Neal laughed softly, and stood beside her to review the piece. “I don’t know. It has a certain charm. Maybe it’s a commentary on the cyclical nature of…” He dropped off. He opened his mouth to say something else, then shut it again. Finally he said, “I got nothing. It’s pretty bad.”

Elizabeth clinked her glass with his. “Yup.” They turned to the next piece in the exhibit, a very literal interpretation of _An Eye for an Eye._ It too was terrible. It always surprised Elizabeth that terrible artists could get their work displayed in the most prominent art galleries in town, but as the owner of this specific gallery, she knew all too well the politics that went into such decisions. Normally, it was question of who taught whom in art school, and who’s aunt was running for state senate. Today, though, was different.

Peter had asked her to throw together a show on extremely short notice. As usual, the idea had come to him while he was having an argument with Neal. They had been standing outside the FBI building, Peter and Neal just parting for the day, when Elizabeth walked up to them.

“Peter, we’re never going to catch these guys by following a paper trail, they’re too good.”

Elizabeth saw Peter shift his weight and put one hand in his pocket, gesturing with the other. He was getting frustrated with the argument, she could tell. “But it’s the only option left, Neal. They’ve hit 5 galleries in the last 8 months. I know they’re good. They’re careful. We’re not going to catch them in the act.”

“No, but maybe we can get a lead on what gallery they’re targeting. I still have some contacts, I coul—“

“It’s not how we do things anymore, Neal.” Peter’s tone was final, and a little dark. Elizabeth jumped in, pretending not to notice how Neal stood a little straighter, a little further away.

“Hi, hon,” she said, and stood on her tippy-toes to kiss Peter. “Still no luck with the gallery robberies?” she asked, looking from Peter to Neal.

“Not yet,” Peter said. “We know that they hit high-end exhibition openings and rob the patrons, leaving all the art. They plan well-enough to have avoided violence so far. They are in and out before anyone realizes anything’s been taken, they leave no prints, and no security footage. Nothing besides confused eye-witnesses, and we can’t make heads or tails of their testimony.”

Elizabeth gave Peter a sympathetic pout, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, hon. You always do.”

She could see Peter begin to soften, and was about to suggest they drown his sorrows in some sushi, when Neal spoke. His eyes seemed to sparkle, and his smile was barely contained.

“What if _we_ were the eye-witnesses, Peter?” She waited for him to elaborate, but Peter seemed to pick up the thought where Neal left off.

“We know they only hit galleries on the East Side,” he said, and took his hand out of his pocket. He took half a step closer to Neal, and lowered his voice. “We also know that they always operate on Fridays, when security is thinnest, and that they hit small galleries hosting big, exclusive events. 

"Yes!” Now Peter was smiling too. Elizabeth could see he already had his sights set on the robbers. “All we need is a gallery that would be willing to host an art show next week, and get the word out that it’s an event for the finest of Manhattan. That’s good work, Neal,” Peter said, and Elizabeth stood back to make room for him to clap Neal on the shoulder.

But Peter just nodded once, and put both his hands back in his pocket. “But what gallery will ever allow us to host a robbery?”

Neal smiled brightly, his hair gently blowing in the September breeze. He too put both his hands in his pockets, and just looked from Peter to Elizabeth, and back again. His smile grew.

~*~

It was the fastest Elizabeth had ever thrown together an exhibition, and she was proud of the work she’d done. While the art itself was pitiable, it was just good enough to seem informed to anyone who didn’t really care about it. Neal had helped her find the artists and secure their pieces. He also helped her with layout and design, and even with the caterer.

She looked around the busy gallery, and was pleased with the buzz in the air. Neal had seen to it that there be a fair representation of Manhattan’s second-tier socialites, and they were all wearing the finest glass Jewelry the FBI had to offer. It looked stunning, even if it was all fake.

“I have to say, Neal. We put together a pretty nice event. If Peter ever quits the FBI, we should all go into business together. No thank you,” she added as a server pressed between her and Neal with a platter of salmon pâté. Neal grabbed a bite and smiled brightly as the server. She was a redhead, and cute, and Elizabeth was happy to see him behaving life himself again. He always made an effort to be carefree around her, but she could tell that there was an underlying tension to him since he returned. She noticed the same in Peter, though both denied whenever she tried to discuss it. She noticed that while the server turned to offer pâté to some other patrons, she stayed nearby. But she was wondering where her husband was. The event had officially begun half an hour ago, and she was going to have to give her opening remarks, soon.

“Speaking of Peter, where is that partner of yours?” Elizabeth asked, and took her phone out of the small purse she was holding. She pressed the button, and turned the phone towards Neal. Her lock-screen image was the picture of him and Peter in their tuxes, from the gambling sting they ran that time. “Remember this? Gosh, you boys looked so handsome in your tuxes.”

She called Peter, but he didn’t answer. She hoped that meant he was busy parking. She frowned and put her phone away. “Neal, Peter’s not here yet, but people are getting antsy to begin. Should I start my remarks, or wait for him?”

Neal waited for a moment before answering her, then tapped his ear gently. “Jones and Diana say you can start. They’re in the van across the street, and they’ve set up a perimeter around the block. These guys probably don’t even carry weapons, so we should be fine until Peter gets here.”

Elizabeth nodded, picked up a fresh flute of champagne, and made her way to the front of the gallery.

~*~

Elizabeth got the attention of the room, and spun a tale of marvelous lies and half-truths about the art they were gathered to appreciate. Neal was impressed. When she finished, she invited the patrons to follow the docents to hear a little about the exhibition. She stepped down to light applause, and joined Neal.

“Now what?” She asked.

“We wait,” Neal replied. “Try and keep an eye out for our thieves. All we do is walk around, chat, and wait for the team to find someone trying to leave the gallery with a sack full of glass diamonds. There’s Peter,” Neal added, and pointed his flute toward the other end of the room. Peter had just walked in from the back, closely followed by a tall, well-dressed man Neal didn’t know. Peter glanced around the room, caught Neal’s eye, and tilted his head a fraction. Something was wrong.

“Diana, we may have a pro—“ Pandemonium followed. Diana was in his ear asking what was happening, as several guns fired into the center of the room. People panicked. But the exit was blocked by three men holding heavy firearms, and the doors were barred shut behind them. Several more armed men and women lined the gallery, surrounding the guests and blocking the corridors towards the back of the gallery.

“Neal, are those gunshots? Stay down, don’t identify as FBI. We’re trying to find Peter,” Diana said in his ear, calmly and urgently. “He’s here, and he’s in trouble, Diana. I-“

Before Neal could finished the sentence, the room quieted around him, almost instantly, as though someone pressed a _pause_ button on the gallery. He saw that all eyes were on the front of the room, where Peter was now standing, hands held above him, and the stranger behind him with a gun to his head.

The man spoke calmly, as though he were the next scheduled speaker at the event. His gentrified British accent rang false.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please do not move. I’d hate to have my associates shoot anyone. Indeed, we’re terribly sorry to have to disturb you tonight. Normally we’d go about our business and rob you blind with none of this hullabaloo, but for now we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Down on the ground. My people will be by to collect your phones and bind your hands. You’ll notice they’re armed. Should anyone try anything untoward I’m afraid they’ll die.”

Some servers and some—for lack of a better word—thugs walked between the guests of the exhibition opening, collecting phones and binding people’s hands in front of them with zip ties. Neal was surprised at how well organized they were. For a team that has never resorted to violence before, they brandished their guns with frightening casualness. Neal and Elizabeth gave up their phones and let their hands be bound, and sat down on the floor.

When the thugs finished their rounds, the man behind Peter spoke again. “You see how cordial it can be when everyone cooperates? Lovely. My colleagues will be around in just a moment to collect your valuables. Now, as I was saying, I was loath to spoil your evening, but it seems we have an FBI agent here tonight. Now, agent Burke, what are you doing here? How many other agents are there, and how do my men and I get out safely? Do elaborate.”

Diana spoke up. Neal didn’t like how loud and clear she was. It felt like everyone in the room could overhear her. “Neal, we caught that. We think we know who it is. His name is Stuart Talma. He’s dangerous. _Don’t get involved, Neal,_ do you understand? We’re waiting for SWAT to arrive and get into place, it should be eight minutes. Don’t do anything, do you hear?”

Neal had no way of answering her, but it didn’t really matter. It just saved him an argument, because didn’t think that Peter had eight minutes. He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the room behind him. There were least 8 to the team. Peter could tell them about the perimeter and how to escape, but he would never risk an operation and perhaps bystanders, not even to save his own life. So he could either left-flat out refuse, which would get him shot, or stall. And Neal didn’t see how Peter would be able to stall eight minutes with a very nonchalant gun aimed at his head. Neal grabbed blindly for El’s hand.

When Peter answered his voice was solid, calm. “I’m not here on the job, I swear. I’m just here for the exhibition opening.”

The man behind him smiled, and cocked the gun. It echoed in the silent gallery. “You’re lying. A man dressed like you does not come to exhibition openings. Unless…” He poked Peter’s left hand with his gun. “Oh, my. Am I interrupting date night?”

He kicked Peter in the back of the knee, hard. Peter fell to the ground and the man stepped closer, pressing his gun directly to the back of Peter’s head. “I recommend Mrs. FBI come forward, or I will shoot this man in the head. You have till three. One.”

Elizabeth drew a strangled sob, and opened her mouth.

“Two.”

Neal grabbed her hand and pulled her back, hissing “ _Stay quiet!_ ”

“Th—“

Neal stood up, awkwardly raising his bound hands. He made his way to the front of the gallery. On his left hand Elizabeth’s wedding band glimmered. “I’m married to agent Burke.”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter had been careful to look anywhere but at Elizabeth and Neal, but he was painfully aware of where they were in the room. He heard a quiet sob, knew it was Elizabeth’s, and prayed no one else noticed. _Don’t, don’t, don’t. Please El, don’t say anything._ If he had to die tonight, Neil deserved to have his mother come home, at the very least.

He closed his eyes as the count reached three. He wished he could see El one last time, or lock eyes with Neal and have one last wordless communication with him. Let him know that… But he wouldn’t risk their lives for a moment of comfort before the end. He held his breath.

And then he heard Neal’s clear voice interrupt the count, heard the collective intake of breath as murder was postponed, at least for a moment.

“I’m married to agent Burke,” Neal said, and walked up to where Peter was still on his knees.

Peter’s eyes snapped to Neal’s. His mouth narrowed to a bare line. He didn’t dare speak, but _God, Neal. Not like this. Don’t do it._ But he knew in his mind that it was too late. Neal was committed.

Stuart eyed Neal for a moment, looking him up and down. It was almost offensive. There was a moment of silence. “Really? _You’re_ the wife? Why do I doubt that?” The gun pressed harder into the nape of his neck.

Peter saw Neal wear a perfect expression of offense blended with indignation. “We prefer the term ‘partners,’” he said, waving the fingers of his left hand, “but yes.” He looked at Peter. “I’m here now. Please don’t hurt him.”

Peter’s fear for Neal was battling with anger. How could he be so stupid? Peter was in no position to play along, especially when doing so would only put Neal in further danger. Failing to do so would put El in danger.

The gun moved from his neck, and was now pointed directly at Neal. “And how do I know you’re not another FBI agent?”

Peter could see the entire gallery from where he knelt, but his focus was entirely on Neal. He had never liked guns, and that, at least, was one thing that hadn’t changed in the year he’d been gone and the weeks he’d been back. Neal was pale, and Peter knew him well enough to notice the slight widening of his eyes, the controlled breathing, and the way he was looking at the gun that meant he was afraid. This terrified Peter. It meant that Neal didn’t have a plan. He was just stalling, risking himself to try and save Peter, and Elizabeth. He didn’t think Neal would be able to stall for long.

The best he could hope for was Neal had in earpiece in, and Diana and Jones were rallying SWAT to take the gallery. He himself hadn’t had a chance to put his earpiece between the car and the entrance to the gallery. He had been running late, and barely noticed that he had bumped into Stuart Talma on his way in through the back entrance. Talma noticed him, though.

“My my,” he said, in his incredibly grating English accent. Peter had spoken to him only once, last winter, about his role in several arms-for-art deals, but he remembered how cloying the accent was. When he got back to the office he had checked—the man was born in Jersey.

“If it isn’t Peter Burke, FBI,” Talma continued, motioning over Peter’s head. A brute of a man walked up behind Peter, and ushered him into the gallery from the back. He took his gun and handed it to Talma. He held it in his hand, his own sidearm still in its holster. “Thank you, Stephen. Please inform the others that we’re abandoning Plan A. Brian will be pleased, no doubt.” He motioned with the gun for Peter to walk ahead of him, and escorted him into the gallery.

Peter couldn’t believe how quickly their danger-free plan had been derailed by a man who was faking a British accent. He hoped he lived long enough to see Jones arrest him, at least.

But for now, he forced himself to stop fantasizing about a rescue; he focused all his attention on Neal. They were going to try and use them against one another, and Peter had to stop that from happening. He couldn’t let Neal die to protect him. Not again.

“Please don’t shoot me,” Neal begged, and raised his hands, still bound, as though they could stave off a bullet. Peter heard the raw sincerity in his voice. “I’m not FBI, you can search me for a badge. We’re really here together.” He stopped talking, but Peter could see it was merely for emphasis. He had another layer to this con. “I have wedding pictures on my phone,” He added, pointing at a tray of cell phones besides a redheaded woman wearing a server’s uniform.

Stuart didn’t move. “Meg?” He asked, somehow making it sound like an ultimatum. The girl handed her weapon—a semi automatic—to the man standing next to her, and grabbed the tray.

“The purple one,” Neal said. Peter realized he knew where this was going.

The girl lifted Elizabeth’s phone and handed it to Stuart. Peter assumed he engaged it and saw the lock-screen image, because the next thing he said was, “You gentlemen are adorable.” He tossed the phone back to the girl, who resumed her weapon and her spot in the gallery.

“I laud how progressive the FBI has become. Brian? Kindly join us up here.” Peter watched as one of the thugs who helped secure the guests silently lumbered his way across the room. He holstered his gun as he approached, and pulled out a small hunting knife. When he reached Neal he grabbed him by his throat without uttering a word. This was obviously routine to them.

Stuart spoke. “I’m terribly sorry if you’re both here by accident. But I cannot afford to take any chances. So you will tell me what I need to know, and hopefully your spouse won’t get too cut up. You see how this works?”

To illustrate his point, the man holding Neal ran the knife across his shoulder. It effortlessly cut through his suit. Neal winced, but couldn’t move.

Peter couldn’t look at Neal, but he couldn’t look away, either. He focused instead on the delicate line of blood visible through the torn suit. He didn’t know what game Neal thought he was playing, he didn’t know how to play along, and he didn’t know how to keep Neal safe. Talma was still standing behind Peter, and he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare do anything that might get Neal hurt again. “Please,” he pled. “You don’t have to do this. You can just leave right now, and disappear.”

Peter caught a gesture from the corner of his eye, and the man holding Neal ran his knife across his back. He saw Neal’s eyes widen in pain.

“That’s not what I asked,” Stuart said calmly.

Peter tried not to panic, but his heart was pounding, hard, equally in fear and rage. “You didn’t ask anything! Just stop, for a minute, please!”

Another gesture, and another slice, this time down Neal’s neck. A woman sobbed somewhere in the recesses of the gallery, and was silenced with kick.

“You know what I want to know.”

Peter could see Neal’s chest rise with labored breaths. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He was responsible for every cut, but every moment this went on was another moment neither of them was killed, was another moment that might bring in the reinforcements. Assuming they knew what was happening in here. He bought another moment.

“My partner’s a civilian, he’s not involved in any of this!”

Another long cut down Neal’s back. Then his arm. Then his ribs. Then his back again. And again.

Peter could barely stand to look at Neal, but he didn’t allow himself to look away this time. His suite was soaked through with blood, his lower lip swollen in the effort not to cry out. Droplets of blood made a small _splash_ as the blood dripped slowly to the ground down his lacerated arms. He looked ready to pass out. Peter wished he could will some of his strength to Neal. His chest hurt with the impotent need to help him.

At another gesture from Stuart, the man holding Neal let go, and he fell limply to the ground. He shakily stood back up. He left bloody marks where his hands touched the floor. Stuart raised his gun again. “I suppose that there’s nothing to it but shooting him. If you still tell me nothing, I’ll know you’re telling the truth.”

Whatever Peter was feeling before, it all erupted as desperation. He believed Stuart would do it, and he believed he didn’t have a lot of time to change his mind.

“No! You don’t have to do that! Please, Stuart, you can just take the art, take the money, and leave. I won’t stop you, I promise!”

The people gathered on the floor gasped and cried, visibly shrinking away from the scene before them.

“Please. We just came here for the art.” Peter said in a low, pleading voice. He was out of options. He might be able to get between Neal and a bullet, if he could just reposition himself…

Neal snorted.

Peter snapped towards him. Neal was looking at him with open contempt. _Not now, Neal. Please, don’t push him. Just shut the fuck up._

Stuart seemed equally exasperated. “Have you something to add?”

Neal kept his eyes on Peter. “It’s just that _I_ came here for the art. I’m honestly not sure why _you_ came, Peter. It’s not like a Neanderthal like you could understand any of this.”

Peter turned a bit so he was facing Neal. He could also see Talma fully from this position. Was this what he thought it was? “Really? You’re going to do this now, _babe_?”

Peter held his breath. How Neal reacted would tell him everything he needed to know.

“You don’t get to call me ‘babe’, not when the only reason you even came here is to see Clinton! Yes, I _knew_ ,” Neal spat, taking a menacing half-step forward, as though ready to lunge at Peter. “And considering I have about _four minutes_ to live, I think I _will_ do this right now!”

Peter shook his head, to cover the small smile he felt forming. Four minutes. They could do four more minutes.

“You are unbelievable! Clinton was there for me, when you were nowhere to be found!”

Stuart raised his gun again, but Neal shushed him with the forefingers of both hands.

“Just a sec. This is about me leaving? You still haven’t forgiven me? You _know_ why I left.”

Talma was surprised. It was probably a new sensation for a planner him. Peter used his momentary distraction to pivot himself again, so he was now almost facing Stuart. Neal moved in a little closer, too.

“You left for you. You do everything for you.” Peter said.

It just slipped out. Peter hadn’t meant to say it. Neal looked like he’d been slapped.

“How can you say, that? When I’m standing here, like this?” Neal’s hand were still bound together, so he could only shrug to indicate the state he was in. “How can you not know by now that I’d do anything to protect my family? To protect you? _Hon?_ ”

Peter’s vision swam for a moment in shades of red. How dare he leverage Elizabeth’s safety to gain a point right now? He had no trouble summoning the venom to continue the argument. Even Stuart leaned back on his heels, and remained silent.

“Maybe I wouldn’t say such “offensive” things if you ever bothered to communicate with me once in a while,” Peter said, and got to his feet. No one stopped him. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to guess your motives for doing things.” Peter took a small step forward, placing himself between Stuart and Neal.

“Oh, you’re the one to talk about communicating! All you do is sit all night in your La-Z-Boy watching _Frozen_ over and over again!”

Peter did a legitimate double take, in what felt like slow motion. Did Neal just accuse him, in the midst of a hostage situation, of watching cartoons? Why could he never keep things simple? He pierced Neal with his most impatient look. It wasn’t hard.

“Well, you know what? Maybe I like a story where the person who screws things up for everyone actually faces some consequences!” Peter shouted.

Talma had heard enough. “Gentlemen, I did _not_ mean to incite a marital spat, but all the sa—“

Neal interrupted him. “You know what, can we have just one more minute? I need to say this before I die.” He turned back to Peter, gesturing only with his eyes back at Talma. Peter repositioned himself again, in such a way that would allow him to tackle Talma as soon as Neal gave the sign.

Neal had barely stopped for breath. “ _Frozen_ isn’t about consequences, and you would know that if you had the attention span to follow the plot! It’s about running away from what you’re feeling and imagining that if you shut everyone out you’ll stop feeling scared! Well, it doesn’t work that way! You shut me out and you’re still scared!”  

“ _I’m terrified, Neal,_ ” Peter said, and his voice was raw, and his tone almost calm, and for a moment all he could see was Neal. “I’m terrified that you’ll leave again, that you won’t come back, and that it will be my fault! Because _you’re_ the one who ran off, who shut everyone out, who thinks he can just come back and pick up where we left off. But you were _gone._ Really gone.”

“I thought you knew why I left,” Neal said in a low voice, his very blue eyes suddenly a little brighter, somehow. He took one step closer to Peter, and Peter realized it was close enough. They locked eyes, held each other’s glance for a heartbeat, and together lunged at Stuart. Neal tackled his waist, where his weapon lay secured in a holster. Peter, with his free hands, pinned down Talma’s arms and took his own gun from his hands.

The other members of the crew came forward, guns drawn, but stopped when Peter stood pointing his own gun back at them. Neal had another gun pointed at Stuart. “If you all drop your weapons now, we can cut a deal. This doesn’t have to end badly for you.”

One of them laughed. Another opened her mouth as she raised his semiautomatic, but Peter caught a shadow of movement behind the front doors of the gallery. “Too late,” he said, and dove to the ground. He lay flat on the floor, one hand sheltering Neal’s head, as the doors to gallery exploded inward, the corridor behind them buzzed with movement, and dozens of SWAT officers secured the room.

When Peter saw the Stuart being led away, he sat up wearily, helping Neal up, as well. They sat together in silence while the room erupted into movement around them. People were crying, FBI and police were apprehending suspects and collecting weapons, and Peter even heard someone threaten to sue. Oddly, it felt like normalcy was restored.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal sat on the floor next to Peter, slightly leaning against him. He was keenly aware of every breath, and the privilege of being able to take it. This… this had been close. Relief washed over him, and he smiled lightly to himself.

“Ow,” he said.

Peter jerked a little. He had been scanning the crowd for Elizabeth, Neal assumed, but now he turned his attention to Neal.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Neal, you’re still bleeding. Stay here, I’ll go get you some help,” Peter said, and began getting to his feet.

Neal groaned as he took his own weight. He nodded toward a group of FBI agents who were making their way inside the gallery through the busted doors. “Diana is on her way over. She’s better at getting help, anyway. Go find Elizabeth.”

Peter looked like he had just been given a hall pass. He clapped Neal lightly on the shoulder, mumbled “ooh, sorry,” when Neal winced, and went to find his wife.

Jones and Diana met Peter as they each crossed the room. Peter pointed back at Neal, Jones pointed outside, and they parted. Jones when to oversee the arrests, and Diana approached Neal.

“You look like hell, Neal,” Diana said, and crouched in front of him. She took out a small knife and cut the zip ties around his wrists. Then, with a surprisingly gentle hand, she looked over the cuts on his arms, torso, back and neck. “You know Neal, I didn’t come back from DC so I could babysit you. I _told_ you not to do anything. You _know_ what happens when you don’t listen to me, right?”

Neal kept his head down, raising only his eyes to meet Diana’s. “Someone gets hurt,” he said in a low, serious voice.

Diana stood up, and helped Neal to his feet. “Some of these need stiches. Come on.”

Neal took an uneven step, leaned on Diana for balance, and then began walking. “Although you technically told me not to identify as FBI, and I didn’t.”

Diana laughed deeply. “Oh, my mistake, Caffrey. Next time I’ll be sure to add that you shouldn’t identify as Peter’s wife, either. Man, I can’t wait to tease Peter about this. Maybe we can print out some business cards that say “Burke-Caffrey.”

“Hey,” Neal said in a wounded tone, as they stepped outside the gallery and towards the line of people waiting for a pair of ambulances to treat them. “Who said it wouldn’t be Caffrey-Burke?”

Diana just gave him an incredulous look. “Please,” she said with disbelief.

Neal positioned himself at the end of the line, but Diana grabbed him by the elbow. “Ow,” he said almost to himself, but she ignored him.

“Excuse me,” she said to the EMT who was giving out blankets and bottles of water.

She flashed her badge. “Berrigan, FBI. What are all these people being treated for?”

The EMT turned towards her, lowered her voice, and said, “Emotional distress.” Neal thought—but wasn’t sure—that she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah. So no.” Diana shooed away the next person who came up for treatment, and dragged Neal so he was standing in front of the EMT. “This man needs actual medical attention. He’s with the FBI. Are you qualified to do stiches?”

The EMT nodded. “I am. And yeah, those look like some pretty nasty cuts. Here, have a seat.”

Diana directed the waiting people to the other ambulance. She turned back to Neal, who had taken off his shirt and was sitting just inside the ambulance, the EMT already preparing to run stitches on one of the cuts on his back. “I’m going to check in with Jones. Will you be okay?”

He smiled at her. He didn’t think he realized how much he missed her until they were both back home. “I’ll be fine.”

As she turned to go, though, he called back to her. “Hey, Diana? Thanks. I told Peter you were way better than him at getting help.”

“Damn straight I am, Mr. Burke-Caffrey,” she said.

~*~

Neal was sitting curbside outside the gallery, shivering lightly, when Peter found him. His shirt, mostly in ribbons, did little to protect him from the cold night air. He almost regretted the effort it took to put it on.

Most of the guests had given their statements and gone home, the police were taking a few final photos of the crime scene and collecting the security footage (which had probably been wiped), and the onlookers had mostly lost interest and abandoned the perimeter.

Peter sat down next to him.

He sighed heavily. “It was quite a night, Neal.”

Neal looked at Peter. He placed his arms on his knees. “Yeah. Quite the welcome home.” He examined his hands for a long moment, and then Peter spoke again.

“Neal, I think… I think that part of me was glad it was you up there tonight.”

He paused, and Neal lightly shook his head. He felt the same way, but he could sense where this was going, and he didn’t think he had the energy to be maligned by Peter tonight. He closed his eyes against the attack that was coming. How did they always end up here?

“Peter, I know what you’re going to say. We keep circling back to this conversation, don’t we?” Neal laughed humorlessly. “I make the wrong decisions for the right reasons. I act impulsively and put others at risk. And I do it all for me.” He knew he sounded bitter, but he was out of ways of explaining it to Peter. It was like they were experiencing the same world but inside-out and upside-down.

When Peter responded, his voice was low, calm, and dead-serious. “A swing and a miss, Neal.”

Neal looked up, and Peter was looking right at him. No, _seeing_ him. For the first time in a really long time.

“That’s not even close to what I was going to say.” Peter paused and removed his jacket. He handed it to Neal, but then changed his mind and just placed it over Neal’s shoulders.

“No, I’m fine. Your bandages cover more skin than your shirt. Listen, Neal, what I realized tonight—hell, what I’ve been realizing for the last year—is that you keep making the hard decisions so that I don’t have to. I know,” he said, talking over Neal when he began to interrupt. “I know it’s the opposite of what I said about Hagen. But tonight, Neal… I honestly don’t know what I would have done if Elizabeth had come forward,” he said emphatically.

“As hard and as helpless as it was watching you get hurt, I’m afraid,” Peter’s voice cracked here, and he ran his hand down his face, and looked away and down the street. “I’m afraid I would have caused the death of all those people in there if you hadn’t been there, Neal, and it was my decision. And I’m afraid of what it means that I’m glad you stepped in, and what it means that I’m glad you intervened with Hagen. What I said about consequences… Well, I did mean it. You never seem to think through the consequences. But you also keep sparing _me_ consequences, and I… I know why you left, Neal. _Thank you_.”

Neal kept Peter’s gaze held, not sure what to say. It was Peter who broke it off, which was unusual. Neal knew what he would normally do now, but he felt an overwhelming urge to _not_ deflect. _Not_ manipulate. _Not_ joke it down. He was tired of never knowing how much of his relationship with Peter was real, and how much was crafted. So he stayed quiet, sitting on the curb, looking at the closed shops across the street. He waited.

Eventually Peter spoke again. His voice was low, but light. “I’m surprised it worked. No one in real life would ever believe we were married.”

Neal turned to him, reanimated by the sheer absurdity, and easy casualness in Peter’s voice. It was a tone he hadn’t heard in a year and three weeks. “Peter, everyone believed it. Not only the bad guys, but the guys in the van loved it. They said we made a cute couple.”

“No they didn’t,” Peter said, and stood up. He extended an arm to Neal, and helped him up, as well.

Neal shrugged lightly in concession, then regretted the motion. It pulled on his stitches. “Maybe not. But they definitely liked the alias. I think we should cultivate it.”

“Right,” Peter said. He got out his car keys began walking down the road. “Because married couplies fight about _Frozen?_ Where did that even come from, by the way? You know I don’t watch that stuff.”

Neal stopped in his tracks, and Peter turned back to him. Neal raised both eyebrows in challenge, his tone almost didactic.

“It was just the first title that came to mind. But you seemed to have a _very_ fair grasp on the plot, under distressing circumstances, Peter.” He paused. “How _do_ you know about _Frozen_? I assumed you were more of a _Twilight Zone/Outer Limits_ reruns kind of man.”

Peter’s mouth hung open for a moment, and he merely shook his head. “Then why would you ask about It? You know what, never mind. I just.. hostages, and everyone listening, and a countdown...”

Peter turned and walked towards his parked car, muttering to himself. Elizabeth was leaning against it, wrapped tightly in her shawl.

As they approached Elizabeth rushed towards Neal. She wrapped him in a big hug, and whispered, “Thank you, sweetie,” in his ear. Neal felt warm tears on his neck. She held him tightly for a moment, and only let go when Peter reminded her of Neal’s stitches.

They climbed into the car, Elizabeth insisting that Neal take the front seat next to Peter. They drove in silence for a while. Peter broke the silence.

“You stole my wife’s jewelry, Neal.”

“You knew it was only a matter of time, Peter.”

“Can we get it back?”

“It won’t come off. Elizabeth, you have tiny fingers.”

“Neal,” Peter said, with a slight warning to his voice.

“Leave it, hon.” Elizabeth said from the back. Neal will return it tomorrow.”

Neal smiled triumphantly at Peter.

“Peter?” Elizabeth said suddenly from the backseat. Peter looked back at her through the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, hon?”

“How do you know about _Frozen?”_

Neal’s smile became a quick laugh, then he closed his eyes, relaxing. Right this moment, the music and the steps aligned perfectly.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The show has given us every aspect of Neal's and Peter's relationship, except for one, and the show has given us almost every set of team members going undercover as couples, except for (almost) one.  
> 2) I really meant for this to be much lighter. But it became post series, and post-series Neal and Peter have a lot to work through.  
> 3) Please excuse the slightly cartoonish villains. The show does it sometimes, so I allowed myself the liberty. 
> 
> As always, comments, insights and corrections are more than welcome!


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